


Maybe Love Wasn’t Meant for Me

by Paraprosdokia (ChangeableConsistency)



Series: Nobody Asked for This [1]
Category: Hawkeye (Comics), Marvel, Marvel 616, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - BDSM, BDSM, Blow Jobs, Dom Clint Barton, Kneeling, M/M, Minor Natasha Romanov/Nick Fury, No beta- we die like men, Past Phil Coulson/Nick Fury - Freeform, Phil has issues, Praise Kink, Prostitute Clint Barton, Prostitution, Sexual Harrassment, Spanking, Sub Phil Coulson, Valentine's Day
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-13
Updated: 2020-02-13
Packaged: 2021-02-27 20:14:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,314
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22691593
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChangeableConsistency/pseuds/Paraprosdokia
Summary: In a world where everyone is either dominant or submissive, Phil has been neglecting his own needs, burying himself in his work. He doesn’t have time for a relationship and few if any dominants would put up with his job, not with his as little he has to offer as a submissive; by nature and habit Phil doesn’t find it easy to let go.His boss and friend, Director Fury refers Phil to a high end escort service. On paper it’s a perfect solution; by keeping it transactional Phil will never have to lie about his work, or defend his less than idea eating and sleeping habits, or worry about what kind of future they’ll have. An hour on his knees and then out of sight, out of mind.Phil prides himself on always being prepared, but nothing could prepare him for Clint Barton.ORThe BSDM AU, Sub!Phil/Dominant Prostitute!Clint fic that nobody asked for.
Relationships: Clint Barton/Phil Coulson, Phil Coulson & Nick Fury
Series: Nobody Asked for This [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1635694
Comments: 34
Kudos: 239





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> “But the only thing I've discovered is how to duck, cover  
> And shield my soldier of a heart”  
> — Sharlet Crooks, “Maybe Love”
> 
> http://sharletcrooks.bandcamp.com/track/maybe-love-single

“Coulson. Lock the door and take a seat.”

“Sir,” Phil asks as he sits across from Fury, “What’s this about?”

Phil’s already sent Fury the report from his interrogation of the Drekmorean AIM cell leader; Phil had flown back over the weekend and had it finished before coming in Monday morning. If Fury had had any questions on it, he wouldn’t have waited until Friday. 

Phil feels pretty good about how it had gone; in the end Igthorn had given up the name of his counterpart in Dunwyn. The two countries have a rocky history and the cells were working together to capitalize on their dysfunction. Phil is only in the initial stages of working the new lead but it looks promising. 

Fury knows Phil will update him as soon as he has anything, which makes the closed door meeting all the more unusual. 

“When’s the last time you went down?”

“Excuse me?”

To anyone else it would have sounded politely confused but Fury’s eyebrow just barely twitches and Phil knows Fury reads his hostility loud and clear; the silent telepathy they developed all those years ago as STRIKE Team: Delta has never really faded. Fury continues to stare at him, taking Phil’s anger in stride, waiting him out. 

The bastard always was more patient than Phil. 

“I’m not sure it’s any of your business. Sir.” 

Fury nearly flinches at the layers in the honorific that have been hollowed out. Usually it’s a professional indication of rank, sometimes a sardonic comment on how far they’ve come, or occasionally a subtle reminder of his responsibilities as Director of SHIELD.

Once, and only once, in a Iranian safehouse in the middle of a sandstorm, in quiet desperation. 

Phil’s never sounded this neutrally formal. It doesn’t sit well in his stomach but he refuses to show his unease. Lashing out at his best friend is just proof that Fury is right, and they both know it. 

There’s a pained silence and, again, Phil breaks first, “Hill?” 

“Sitwell. Said you went a little harder than usual on one of his probies.”

“Cordell is going to get someone—,” Phil stops at the tilt of Fury’s head and sighs, cutting the excuse short. 

“Audrey moved back to Portland last August. We tried the long distance thing but,” Phil trails off with a shrug. 

“And you haven’t found someone else?”

“No one I trust.”

“Jesus, Phil,” most subs need to go down every month or so; the fact that it’s been over 4 means he must be desperate for it, “I could—”

“No,” the morning after Iran had been beyond awkward; the last thing Phil wants is a repeat of that. He loves Fury. They share a bond that only two people who have held each other’s lives in their hands have. He trusts Fury with every part of his being. He would and has followed him to the literal ends of the Earth. 

The problem is that Phil always keeps a layer of distance between himself and anyone he submits to; that distance would eventually destroy their friendship and Fury means too much to him to put him through that. 

“I’m fine,” Phil says. 

Phil catches that Fury catches the hint of uncertainty in his voice and he repeats himself in a much firmer tone, this time giving the honorific the respect Fury’s earned, “I’m fine. I won’t let it affect my performance again, sir.”

Maybe if he can convince Fury he can convince himself. 

Fury sighs and then opens the middle drawer of his desk and pulls out a plain white business card. Embossed in black block letters it says:

D A N G E R O U S L I A I S O N S  
BY APPOINTMENT ONLY  
(202) 555 - 3889

“What’s this?”

“It’s a highly discreet service. I’ve vetted the owner and her staff personally.”

“You’ve paid for submission?” Phil isn’t able to hold back his surprise. Even though prostitution has been legal for decades there’s still significant stigma attached to it. 

Fury’s expression dares Phil to judge him and he finds he can’t as he reaches out for the card. 

~~~

There’s no need to be nervous. 

The questionnaire Romanov emailed him had been exceedingly thorough and after several conversations he’s beginning to see why Fury trusts her and, by extension, her people. 

Nothing is going to happen that he doesn’t want to happen. And if that means he can’t actually go down, at least he can tell Fury he tried. 

He’s had a light dinner and changed into loose fitting blue plaid pajama pants and a worn blue long sleeved t-shirt. When the doorbell rings at nine sharp he takes a centering breath and pads barefoot across the hardwood floor to the door. 

For a split second he’s frozen in place. 

Clint Barton’s pictures do not do him justice. 

Blond and blue eyed, he stands a good three inches over Phil’s own 6’ and his shoulders almost fill the doorway. His nose has been broken a couple times and there’s a scar bisecting the upper right side of his lip; his black leather jacket looks soft enough that it’s probably everyday wear and not an affectation. Over all the ‘tough dom’ image comes across as natural, not forced. 

But it’s the smile that arrests Phil; charming, maybe even a little shy, though his eyes are direct as he gives Phil a once over. Tough-on-the-outside, soft-on-the-inside dominants are like catnip to Phil and he barely keeps from licking his lips in anticipation. Maybe this won’t be so bad. 

“Mr. Barton? I’m Phil Coulson. Please, come in,” he offers his hand to shake, which Barton takes, squeezing with a restrained firmness that would have made a younger Phil swoon. 

“Thank you,” Clint feels his smile brighten. On paper Coulson seemed polite, it’s nice to see that carry through to the person. He matches the photograph he submitted, which is surprising. Most clients can’t resist providing their most flattering photos, often boudoir shots, as if they have something to prove but that wasn’t the case with Coulson. 

He looks utterly cuddleable in his pajamas, his dark hair slightly mussed and a smile flirting with his stormy blue eyes; a stark contrast to the professional picture of him with serious expression, wearing a dark suit and tie and not a hair out of place; an image more suited for a boardroom than a bedroom. 

All Clint knows is that he’s some sort of high up government official, someone reliant on the strictest confidentiality and with enough money or connections to wire payment through a numbered account out of Madripoor. Which makes him a certain kind of dangerous. 

If Clint’s being honest, it’s kind of a turn on. 

Even out of the suit Coulson projects a sense of absolute control. He’s the type of ‘buttoned up by day’ sub that Clint would expect to be into the really freaky shit but his questionnaire rated nearly everything as neutral. Clint had thought maybe Coulson was just afraid of expressing his preferences but there is no way this guy is afraid of anything. 

“Feel free to hang your jacket,” Phil lifts his chin towards the coat rack and heads into the kitchen. He gestures past the kitchen table towards the couch and tv, a kneeling cushion resting at one end, “We’ll be set up in there. I’ll kneel, maybe lean against you. If I get comfortable enough, I may rest my head on your leg, but don’t worry if it doesn’t happen. You can watch TV, read, play with your phone, whatever; just don’t ignore me completely. Playing with my hair or neck is good. Really, anything above the waist is fair game. If it won’t sound forced, a little light praise is nice. We shouldn’t need safe words but, if necessary, standard traffic lights will suffice. If I say ‘no’ or ‘wait’ we pause and regroup. We’ll go until 9:50; that will give plenty of time for me to come up as well as handle any aftercare, though I doubt I’ll need it. Any questions?”

“Do you plan everything within an inch of its life?” Clint asks with a smirk as he leans against the counter. Without his jacket the room is comfortable, though maybe a little to the cool side; he’s glad he paired a long sleeve Henley with his jeans and motorcycle boots. 

“Let me guess, you’re a leap first kind of guy?” Phil asks in a dryly amused tone. 

Clint raises his hands in surrender and his smile is anything but innocent, “Guilty.”

Phil fights down a blush at the hungry way Barton is looking at him and just manages to not clear his throat before asking, “Would you like something to drink?”

“Water?” Damn. That was Clint’s best smile and Coulson didn’t even blink. He can usually measure a client in a glance but Coulson isn’t giving him anything. It's like seeing two overlapping images. Who’s the real Phil Coulson: the serious suit or the secret smile?

Clint wonders if the scene will be as cold and methodical as Coulson’s laid out, that should give him his answer. He gives himself a mental shrug; he gets paid either way and, regardless, he can only work with what he’s given. 

They settle on the couch and Clint opts to turn on the game. He doesn’t really follow basketball but it will be pleasant white noise. Coulson situates himself so that his legs are folded under him and his side is pressed up against Clint’s leg. He looks up at Clint and asks, “Good?”

With most subs there would have been a little subservience— in the posture, if not the tone— but even now Coulson is in control. 

What would he look like with that control shattered?

Clint spends the first five minutes watching Coulson before mentally kicking himself. Of course Coulson is going to stay wound up as long as he thinks Clint is focused on him. He moves his eyes to the television, but rests his hand on Coulson’s shoulder and strokes his thumb across the back of his neck. 

After a few seconds of that, it’s like a string being cut— or no, not that. Like stepping out of the spotlight and letting yourself settle back into your skin. Clint’s never seen a sub fall into subspace like this, as if it were just something to switch on and off. 

Phil sighs as he finally lets himself go, the buzzing in his bones finally quieting down, the tension pouring out of him like water. He leans further into Barton’s warmth and wraps one arm loosely around Barton’s leg. 

“There you go,” Barton murmurs, just barely audible over the television and Phil feels himself sink a little further. He lets his eyes drift shut and the sound of the game wash over him. 

Kneeling on his own, fantasizing about having a dom to lean against instead of the couch, has only been a stop gap. Nothing satisfies the ache need to submit like the real thing. 

Barton scratches his blunt fingernails up Phil’s neck and through his hair, ruffling it and then combing it smooth again with his fingers. As Barton continues to pet him he feels the last of his resistance slip away.

“That’s good, Phil, just like that.”

Clint isn’t sure when Coulson finally lets his head rest against Clint’s thigh, lost himself in the evenness of Coulson’s breathing, of the feeling of having such a good sub under his fingers; he doesn’t even have to concentrate on offering words of praise, they come naturally.

“So good for me,” Clint says, smoothing a hand down the side of Coulson’s arm and back up again, “Such a good sub.”

Coulson hums a little and nuzzles Clint’s thigh, his arms tightening around Clint’s leg for the barest second. 

Clint goes from half hard to full mast with the action. He gently clinches his fingers in Coulson’s hair and asks, not expecting an answer, “That good, boy?”

He’s surprised when he gets a moan and feels teeth press against his thigh through the denim. Clint groans, “Yeah, ‘s’good for me too.”

If Coulson was his, this is where he would pull him between his legs by his hair, let him nuzzle at Clint’s button fly for a bit before letting Coulson run his hot, wet mouth up and down—

But that’s not what they agreed on and, anyway, Coulson’s not actually his. 

He changes his grip and goes back to petting Coulson’s hair and running his hand across his shoulders, down his back, then up again to squeeze his neck before ruffling up his hair and then starting the cycle over again. 

He’s startled when at 9:48 Coulson’s shoulders straighten and he sits up, clear eyed and focused and not at all like he’s spent the last 40 minutes drifting in subspace. 

The corner of Phil’s lip twitches downward at the patch of drool on Barton’s jeans and he wipes his mouth, “Sorry about that.”

“Don’t be. It’s by far not the most objectionable bodily fluid I’ve gotten on me,” Barton says with a smile.

Phil smiles back. God, he should have done this ages ago. He feels ten years younger. 

Phil stands to stretch, twisting at the waist before stretching his hands up over his head. He bends over and pulls on his calves before standing up again and pulling each leg up behind him one at a time. He sighs as everything settles into place. 

Phil glances up at the clock and smiles again, 9:50 exactly. 

Clint has to use every trick in the book to get his erection down; Coulson’s flexibility is yet another thing that defies Clint’s expectations. He’s never met a desk jockey so aware of his own body, of what it can do. Clint spares a thought to how Coulson would look in a network of knots, skin beaded with sweat and eyes full of need; maybe suspended from the hooks at Clint’s loft— and that’s a splash of cold water that shuts him down hard. 

He never thinks about taking clients home. 

Never. 

Clint stands and stretches himself, letting his shirt ride up and scratching at his exposed treasure trail, trying to make himself enticing as possible, and it’s just because repeat clients are good for business, nothing more.

Phil’s mouth waters and he has to remind himself that they’re done for the evening. Anything more would have to be renegotiated and besides, this has already gone so well; why risk turning it sour. 

“Do you need to debrief?” Coulson asks, and suddenly he’s the man from the photo, all straight lines and steel spine, his tone briskly efficient. It’s startling how quickly and thoroughly he can change from one person into another and Clint feels that small, intoxicating, frisson of fear again; every instinct he has is telling him Phil Coulson is dangerous. 

Good God, is he in trouble. 

“Actually, yes. One thing,” Barton says. 

Phil feels a sense of unease that he doesn’t let show. He hadn’t picked up on any problems. Is he losing his touch? Had he done something while down? He knows he can get a little clingy but that shouldn’t matter in this case, it’s not like he expects anything more from Barton than what they explicitly laid out and it’s normal for subs to get a little needy while in subspace. 

“But first, should I— can I get you something to drink, or…”

“As I mentioned, I don’t really need aftercare. Though,” Phil says, realizing it's not all about him, “If you need to, to come down, or…?”

“No. No I’m. I’m good.”

There it is. There’s the awkwardness that always comes with scening. Phil’s unorthodox preferences are why he’ll never really be submissive enough for anyone, certainly not for the long haul. He could fake it but, really, the whole point of this exercise is to not have to fake it. 

Phil mentally shrugs off the melancholy that wants to settle into him and ruin his mood. This had been good. No reason to taint it with ‘what if’s. 

Clint picks up his water to give himself something to do with his hands and then dives right in, “In the middle, you seemed to get a little… amorous. Is that something you’d like to explore in future sessions?”

At least, Clint’s hoping there will be future sessions. 

“I’ll consider it, though this was more than adequate,” Phil winces, “Sorry, I don’t— I didn’t mean to make it sound,” he pinches his lips together to stop himself from shoving his foot any further down his throat. And this. This is why he doesn’t scene. As if ‘more than adequate’ conveys how amazing kneeling for Barton had been, “This was good. Perfect, really. But yes. I might be interested in doing this again and potentially adding a sexual element.”

“Good. Great, I mean. I guess that was all I had. We can work the details out over email.”

“Alright then. If there isn’t anything else, Mr. Barton?” It’s an obvious dismissal, but Clint knows he shouldn’t feel like he’s being kicked out. This was a job, he did what he was paid to do and now it’s time to leave. It’s fine. 

“No. But,” Clint makes a snap decision and digs out a Dangerous Liaisons business card, “Do you have a pen?”

He scrawls his cell across the back, “That’s my personal number. If you feel yourself dropping, or need anything, I want you to call me.”

What’s he doing, giving out his personal cell number? The number printed on the card will route through the office just fine but there’s something about Phil Coulson that makes Clint want to break all the rules. 

Barton's uncompromising tone plucks at Phil’s arousal, which is probably why he says, far too much honesty in his voice, “Yes, sir.”

~~~

“I see you took my advice.”

“Shut it.”

“Is that anyway to talk to your boss?”

“Oh, well in that case: Shut it. _Sir.”_

Fury just laughs. 


	2. Chapter 2

Clint’s got Phil tied up six ways to Sunday and a bet that if he can get out of it Clint will be his date to the Dunwynian Embassy’s Valentine Ball. 

Phil would prefer it just skip it, but someone (Fury) had told the Ambassador that Phil had been instrumental in dealing with their little AIM problem. In most organizations praise from someone at Fury’s level would be a reward, but Phil sees it for what it is; payback over the Thembria op. 

He had known that was going to come back to bite him on the ass but at the time he couldn’t resist seeing the look on Fury’s face when instead of putting down the rebellion leaders, he recruited them. It was also the right thing to do, but that’s besides the point. 

Phil feels bad about roping (hah) Clint into this, but at least _he’ll_ get paid. Phil would go on his own but with Dunwyn’s archaic stance on sub’s rights, not to mention the fact that the Ambassador had pinched his ass as if it were some sort of compliment, there will be safety in numbers. 

And it’s not that he needs some big domly dom there to protect his virtue. What he needs is someone there to remind him why breaking the Ambassador’s hand is a Bad Idea. 

Beyond the scene it would cause, pissing off the guy who’s second in line to the throne could cause unnecessary complications with their operations in Dunwyn. Taking out that AIM cell has left a vacuum and Phil intends to be there to lay down exactly what activities SHIELD will and will not tolerate from whoever ends up filling that vacuum. Becoming persona non grata would put a severe kink in those plans. 

“How are you doing there, Phil?” 

Speaking of plans.

Phil looks amazing like this, all pale skin and purple rope. Other than straining in the most delicious way, he doesn’t appear to have made much progress. 

It’s kind of a shame; he’s never actually seen Phil in a suit and it might be nice to have Phil on his arm at a fancy dress party, to be able to tell someone, ‘He’s mine,’ if only for a night. 

He tells himself that the fact that it would be at his Valentine rate also doesn’t hurt. When Phil finally gives up, Clint might just offer to go with him anyway. 

Clint slides his hand up Phil’s side to his neck, resting his thumb in the hollow of Phil’s throat he says, “Ready to give up?”

Phil licks his lips and shakes his head, the only thing he can move with ease.

“Well, you’ve got time left, I guess. Though the longer you make me wait, the less time we have for,” Clint gently squeezes Phil’s throat and then brings his thumb up to rub Phil’s lower lip, “Other things.”

Phil bites Clint’s thumb, not too hard but it’s certainly no coy little kitten bite, and draws it in with his teeth, sucking and biting, and God his mouth. 

Fuck waiting. 

“You want something, pretty boy?” Clint asks, wiping his wet thumb across Phil’s lips.

“I want to suck your cock,” Phil’s far gone enough that he can’t stop himself from making it sound like an order, even though by now he knows better. 

“Ah-ah-ah. Ask the right way,” Clint says, wrapping his other hand around Phil’s trapped cock and squeezing just enough to make his warning clear. He can see the wheels turning in Phil’s head as he debates being a brat, but in the end his sweet nature wins out.

“Please, sir, may I suck your cock?” Phil presses a chaste kiss against Clint’s thumb, as if apologizing for his rough treatment. 

“That’s my good boy,” he loves the needy way Phil looks at him when he hears the praise almost as much as the flush that spreads over his body.

“Now, hold still,” Clint says with a wink.

He loves that even halfway down Phil has the presence of mind to roll his eyes as Clint unbuttons his jeans and gets ready to fuck his face. 

Phil’s mouth is hot and wet and tight around him; tied like he is Clint is easily able to bottom out, Phil’s throat closing around him as he swallows. 

Clint waits until he hears that first sound of distress before pulling back and letting Phil catch his breath and then pressing back in and waiting to hear it again; and even through the discomfort Phil’s tongue never stops moving and he keeps sucking, “So good for me Phil, look at how pretty you are with your lips around my cock, taking all of it, such a sweet little cocksucker, oh, fuck, you feel so good.”

Phil twists as much as he’s able within the confines of the ropes, trying to take more even though there’s no more to take. He starts whimpering every time Clint pulls back and it's such an intoxicating sound that Clint speeds up his thrusts just to hear it over and over again.

Phil has tears leaking down his face and he’s looking at Clint like he’s hung the moon and the sun and the stars. Clint reaches down and wipes away one of the tears, then brings his thumb up to his mouth and watches Phil watch him as he licks away the tear, Phil never once slacking off on the suction around Clint’s cock, though his whole body shivers and his hips trust uselessly from within their bondage. 

When Clint can’t take it anymore he presses all the way in and holds there, “Swallow it all, pretty boy,” and at the vibrations of Phil’s needy moan he comes so hard he has to grip the headboard to keep from falling over or collapsing on top of Phil.

He pulls out of Phil’s throat but leaves the tip of his still spurting cock between Phil’s lips and as Phil swallows Clint’s come Clint keeps up a litany of praise, “That’s it, keep swallowing. You’re so good for me, Phil; you’re perfect and you’re precious and you’re mine.”

When he’s finally finished coming he slides down Phil’s body until he’s kneeling between Phil’s legs. He strokes Phil’s cock, spreading his precum around the tip and then using Phil’s slickness to aid him, “Is there anything else you want?”

Phil licks his lips, eyes half closed and Clint can tell he’s proud of himself. He clears his throat, “Actually, may I have some water, sir?”

“Of course you can, sweetheart,” he brings the glass from the nightstand to Phil’s lips and helps him as he drinks it all.

“More, sir?” 

His voice is so small and careful Clint can’t help but press a kiss against his forehead, “I’ll be right back,” he taps Phil’s nose with his fingertip, “Don’t go anywhere.”

This time instead of any sort of sass he gets a quiet, “Yes, sir.”

Fuck, but that does something for Clint. 

When he comes back, Phil is propped up across the foot of the bed, one hand toying with a loose end of rope pooling around his body, the other slowly stroking his cock. 

Fucking hell. You would think he would have learned to not underestimate Phil Coulson.

Leaving aside the fact that he was blitzed out of his mind not thirty seconds ago, Clint only knows 3 ways to have gotten out of those knots so quickly; two involve dislocating your thumb and the third he learned in a Bolivian prison and once again he has to wonder, who the hell is this guy? 

“So,” Phil asks with a cheeky grin, the hand on his cock keeping a steady pace, “Do you own a tux?”

~~~

The doorbell rings at 6:30 on the dot; Clint is as punctual as ever. Phil straightens his bow tie one last time and then opens the door. 

“Wow,” they both say. 

Phil has forgone a tuxedo or one of his nicer suits and instead picked up a new outfit in the latest sub style. It’s not like anything else he owns and he’s self aware enough to know he bought it with Clint in mind. 

The black slacks and black silk shirt have the seams stitched in blood red, and in between the leather covered boning the corset vest is striped in thick panels in the same shades. It zips up the front but the back panels are held together by bright white laces tied in an intricate pattern. 

Clint’s classic black and white tuxedo is obviously custom fitted; it hugs every curve, emphasizing his long legs and the ratio between his broad shoulders and his hips. And don’t even get Phil started on his arms or, as Clint comes inside, his ass.

Phil is stunning, somehow looking as comfortable and at ease dressed to the nines as he does in the pajamas he usually wears when Clint comes over, and Clint’s fingers ache to grab Phil by those laces and bend him over the kitchen counter, to pull down his slacks and take him right here, right now.

Phil clears his throat, “I got you something.”

Phil picks up the pocket square that matches his outfit from the counter, “May I?” At Clint’s nod he replaces the white one with Phil’s. Part of him feels guilty for marking Clint like this. It’s bad enough that he’s paying for him to be here, he doesn’t really want to make Clint think Phil thinks he owns him. 

“I got you something, too,” Clint says as Phil finishes smoothing out his jacket. 

He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a long thin box, “It’s— you don’t have to wear it; I just thought with you wanting me to help fend off unwanted advances,” he shrugs and hands the box to Phil and tries to hide his nervousness. 

Phil flips open the box and doesn’t gasp but it’s a near thing. Inside is a black leather collar with a fine silver chain stitched around the center, “It’s beautiful. Help me put it on?”

Clint takes the collar out of the box and sets the box on the counter. He strokes his thumb across Phil’s throat and smiles when Phil’s eyes flutter shut. He leans down and places his lips just above where the collar will rest and at Phil’s quiet, “Oh,” deepens the kiss, Phil’s arms wrapping around him as he presses the full length of his body against Clint’s. When Clint is sure he’s left a mark he scrapes over the spot with his teeth before kissing his way up to Phil’s ear, “Tonight everyone’s going to know you’re _mine_.”

“Clint,” Phil sighs, his voice laced with need.

Clint pulls away just enough to slip the collar around Phil’s neck and buckle it in place, “There,” he says, stroking the leather, “Perfect.”

Phil tilts his head up for a kiss, but Clint stops him with a finger against his lip, “If I kiss you now, I won’t be able to stop.”

“So don’t stop.”

“No, you said this was important.”

“You’re important,” Phil says sliding his hands down Clint’s back to grab his ass and pull him close enough for Clint to feel exactly what he’s doing to Phil. 

“Stop that,” Clint says, swatting Phil sharply on the ass.

“That’s not exactly encouraging me to stop,” Phil says as he hooks one ankle around Clint’s calf to get better leverage and rubs his hard cock against Clint’s thigh.

“No,” Clint says, and he can see that the reprimand stings as he takes a step back. 

Phil’s eyes flick down; for all that he has a smart mouth, he’s not usually a disobedient sub; it’s just seeing Clint like this, wearing his collar, it does something to Phil. He swallows and says, contritely, “I’m sorry, sir.”

“Behave yourself at the Embassy and when we get back I’ll spank you until you beg me to stop.”

Phil wants that, but even more he wants to say, ‘Fuck the Embassy’ and spend the rest of the night letting Clint take him apart one touch at a time. 

He feels a sick little twist in his stomach as he remembers he can do exactly that; that he’s paying for this. 

It isn’t a date, it’s a transaction. 

It’s what he wanted. Clint isn’t his boyfriend, he’s a prostitute. He’s only going to the Ball because it’s his job. Phil could just tell Clint they’re staying in instead, lay out a scene tailored exactly to his preferences in a way he hasn’t done for weeks and send Clint on his way when he’s done. 

So maybe he doesn’t want what he wants after all. He realizes he’s been silent for too long when Clint cups the side of his face, “Do you not want that?”

“What? Yes. No. I mean yes, I want— but…,” Phil straightens his shoulders and pulls on his professional mask, “We should go.”

“Hmm,” Clint tries to figure out what he’s not seeing. He tilts his head as an idea comes to him and he figures, nothing ventured, nothing gained, “Come here.”

He grabs Phil by the tight laces that have been calling him since he first caught sight of them and manhandles Phil until he’s bent over the counter, “Pull your pants down and then don’t move. Underwear too.”

“Oh! Oh, fuck. Yes, sir,” Clint has him far enough over the counter that he’s up on his toes, which has the added effect of pushing his ass out further, leaving him feeling even more vulnerable. He wonders if he should step out of his pants so that he can spread his legs, but Clint had said not to move and so instead he just lets them fall around his ankles, headless if any wrinkles they might get. 

He can hear Clint rummaging around his kitchen and his mind is racing, wondering exactly what Clint is going to do with him.

“Hah. Found it,” Clint says and then he’s bending over Phil, his erection pressing through his clothes against Phil’s bare ass.

“Now,” he practically growls, “I want you to keep count. Ten per side, twenty total. That should be enough of a reminder to last you until we get back.”

“Ohhhh,” Phil has no leverage to push back into Clint, he can only lie there and take whatever Clint chooses to give him, “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”

There’s a twack and a bright stinging that slowly fades to a dull throb. 

“Oh, fuck!” Clint’s spanking him in his own kitchen with a wooden spoon and it’s too much all at once and he forgets to count.

“Phil, only good boys get their spankings,” Clint teases him, “And I know how much you like being my good boy.”

“Al—Almost as much as I like spankings,” Phil says with a grin as he recovers his composure, “I’m sorry, sir. I’ll do better.”

The wooden spoon comes down on his other cheek as swift and vicious as the first and Phil loves it, “One, sir.”

“Good boy.”

“Two, sir.”

They keep going at a steady pace, Clint switching sides with each smack, until Phil’s breath hitches on number sixteen.

“You’re doing so well, pretty boy. Only four more; you can take four more for me, can’t you?”

Phil nods and licks his lips, surprised when he tastes salt there; he hadn’t even realized he had begun to cry, “Yes, sir.”

The spoon thwacks down again, “Seventeen, sir.”

God, forget tonight, he’s going to still feel this tomorrow, “Eighteen, sir.”

Maybe this was a mistake. Now that he has Phil here, what Clint wants more than anything is to slick him up and fuck him until they both come.

“Nineteen, sir.”

But he’s been keeping an eye on the clock, if they leave in the next 5 minutes and parking isn’t bad they won’t be late; he’ll just have to have Phil dress up for him like this another time. 

“Twenty. Twenty, sir,” Phil pants, his cock aching almost as much as his ass. 

“Good boy,” Clint says, tossing the spoon aside and rubbing Phil’s cherry red ass. It’s hot to the touch and he can’t resist bending down to blow cool air over it. Phil moans and Clint spreads his cheeks, directing the air over his tight hole.

“Oh, oh, sir, fuck? Please? Please fuck me? Please?”

Clint reaches down and pulls up Phil’s briefs, being careful with the elastic as he brings them up over his ass.

Phil doesn’t pout— he doesn’t. But he does sigh as he rests his forehead on the counter and tells Clint, “You suck.”

“Maybe later, after your real spanking.”

Jesus, if Clint didn’t consider that a ‘real’ spanking Phil’s actually a little nervous for what’s coming, “Yes, sir.”

“Assuming you behave, of course,” Clint says pulling up Phil’s pants and then lifting his chest up off of the counter. He pulls Phil’s sore ass into the cradle of his thighs, his cock pressing into the cleft of his cheeks as he does up Phil’s pants. 

Clint can actually hear the eye roll, “Yes, sir.”

“Phil,” Clint warns, pressing his palm down against Phil’s cock.

“Yes, sir,” Phil repeats, this time much more respectfully. 

“Are you still up for the motorcycle or should we call a car?”

“Clint Barton, I’ve been wanting you to take me for a ride since I laid eyes on you, don’t you dare back out on me now.”

“Okay,” Clint laughs, “Let's get going then.”

~~~ 

Phil had been touched to find that Clint had brought along a second motorcycle jacket to layer over his coat and scarf, in addition to a helmet for him; though in retrospect they probably should have taken a car. DC in February is fucking cold. 

He tables his fantasy of Clint sliding his jacket, warm from his body heat, over Phil’s shoulders for a warmer day. 

Usually, thinking about the future in any of his relationships would send him into a (very controlled) panic, but with Clint everything is just… Easier. 

He wonders sometimes what it would be like if they were actually dating. He can handle Clint’s job. He knows Clint loves his work, that he sees it as helping people; which is true. Phil’s proof enough of that. He would never want to take that away from Clint and, besides, Phil thinks he just isn’t wired for jealousy. 

That’s actually what had split him and Audrey up. She had called him withholding and when he very reasonably suggested she find an additional sub to help meet her needs, she had lost it. 

And Clint seems to be okay with Phil’s version of submission; Phil’s even learning to tolerate a little aftercare, seeing how much Clint likes it. Hell, he thinks it could be something he might even be able to grow to enjoy. 

But maybe Clint’s only okay with the way Phil submits because Phil is paying him to be okay with it? He’s pretty sure Clint enjoys everything they do together; surely if he didn’t he would refer Phil to one of his coworkers. Phil isn’t exactly sure how DL is set up but based on conversations Phil has had with Fury that wouldn’t be unusual. 

Natasha does an excellent job of making sure Dangerous Liaison’s clients’ needs are met, but what if there’s no one else suited to meet Phil’s?

And would he even want someone else? He can’t imagine anyone giving him what Clint does. 

Though that circles back around to the fact that Clint is only giving it to him because that’s what Phil pays him to do. 

If they were in an actual relationship he would want to talk to Clint about his life, including his job; to hear him complain about his frustrations and share in his successes, to find out if there’s any hot gossip around DL and who he gets along with and who he can’t stand at work. 

Clint would have to anonymize a lot of it, obviously; but the same holds true of Phil. It would be nice to be able to complain about a op going south, even if he can’t exactly say, ‘I barely got my assets out alive during yesterday’s arms deal and now all I want to do is stay in bed and eat pizza.’ 

Fucking Strucker. 

He’s still pissed about that. 

At any rate, it would be nice to talk about a big project at work going FUBAR and have a shoulder to cry on or a partner to bitch to. 

Clint pulls up front and drops Phil off while he goes to park, following the valet’s instructions. Phil tips the woman and when Clint gets back he switches his helmet to his left hand so that he can offer his right elbow. Phil is charmed despite himself and takes it. As they walk, Clint presses Phil’s hand into his side, drawing Phil closer. Phil huffs a half laugh and leans into him. 

The ride over hasn’t done his ass any favors, but at least it isn’t on fire anymore; he’s pretty sure if it was he would be dragging Clint to an unoccupied room to have his way with him. Instead it’s more pleasantly sore. It isn’t until Clint pats him on the ass after they've dropped their jackets and helmets at the coat check that he flashes back to the scene in his kitchen, his pants around his ankles and tears on his lips, and suddenly he’s ready to beg Clint to take him right back home. 

Phil runs the same mental analysis he’s been doing since he got the invitation from Prince Victor, calculating exactly how much time he needs to spend pandering (or threateningly, depending on the contact). At least through dinner, and probably a couple dances after that. He almost gives into the urge to slump his shoulders and maybe kick at the ground. 

The childish image has the corner of his mouth curling in amusement which of course Clint catches, raising an eyebrow. Phil gives him a subtle head shake and takes Clint’s arm again as they walk towards the dining room. 

~~~

“May I have this dance?” Countess Seaberry asks, indicating Phil but asking Clint. 

Phil grinds his teeth but manages to swallow his ire and say, “I’d be delighted.”

Seaberry has at least twenty years on him and is handsy even for a Dunwynian, but she also owns all of the media outlets in Dunwyn and that’s not a bridge Phil is willing to burn. 

At least not yet. 

In between bragging about her media empire, her castle, and her connections, she manages to squeeze his ass no less than seven times and imply he would look good chained to her bed twice. He’s subtly directing her hands back to his waist when he feels a sudden heat behind him and Seaberry tops dead in her tracks, her eyes widening.

“May I cut in?” It’s phrased as a question, but it’s definitely not one, as Clint doesn’t wait for an answer before sweeping Phil into his arms and around the ballroom, having no problem keeping up with the strange time signature of the Dunwynian waltz. 

“I had that handled.”

“Your eye was twitching. You were ten seconds from doing something violent.”

“Oh, twenty at least.”

“Maybe I was jealous.”

“Were you?” Phil teases.

Clint looks away and then calls himself a coward and looks Phil in the eyes, “Would you like me to be?”

It’s Phil’s turn to glance away, and he isn’t as brave, looking over Clint’s shoulder before saying softly, “I shouldn’t.”

“Don’t think about should or shouldn’t. How do you feel?”

Phil bites the inside of his lip. He had always thought he was beyond jealousy, but he can’t deny the thrill he felt as Clint whisked him away from Seaberry. 

“Look at me, Phil,” his voice is like iron and Phil can’t not obey. Clint’s gaze is penetrating as he asks, “Would you like me to be?”

Lost in Clint’s eyes, Phil breathes out, “Yes.”

“Come home with me.”

Phil’s voice is much firmer when he answers this time, “Yes.”

~~~

“Tash, why am I such a futzing disaster?”

“Good genes and clean living?”

“I fucked up. I mean, I always fuck up but this time I _really_ fucked up. 

“What do you mean?”

“I, uh. I took him home.”

“Home?”

“Yeah, uh. My home. My apartment.”

“Clint!”

“For the weekend.”

“Clint!”

“I know, I know. What am I going to do?” He asks, flopping back on her office couch and rubbing his hand over his face.

“You’ve fallen in love with him, haven’t you?”

“I— yeah. Yeah, I think so.”

“Then you can’t keep him as a client.”

“What?” He sits up abruptly, “No. I can’t do that. Tash, I can’t drop him.”

“I didn’t say that. I said stop treating him like a client. Tell him how you feel. Ask him to wear your collar.”

Phil had left early this morning, slipping out before Clint woke. He had left the collar that he had worn all weekend on Clint’s counter next to a fresh pot of coffee. 

And it’s not like he had expected Phil to keep it, it had been for the party. Clint hadn’t even properly asked to collar the man but rather offered it as a prop, like that time Tash had gotten them wedding rings when they were pretending to be married for that job in Symkaria. 

Clint had actually been surprised when Phil had asked for his help putting it back on after their first shower, holding it out to Clint and asking, “Do you mind?” 

Clint had kind of been hoping he would keep it. That it would mean something. 

But he hadn’t. 

So it must not have. 

“What— what if he doesn’t want that. He’s always said he doesn’t do relationships, that what we have is perfect for him— I,” Clint reveals his deepest fear, “What if he doesn’t want to keep seeing me once I tell him?”

“Then he’s an idiot who doesn’t deserve you and you can come over to my place to drown your sorrows in vodka and ice cream. But it’s not good for you to keep him as a client if you have feelings for him, especially if he doesn’t feel the same way. That being said, I think he does.”

“Really?” Natasha’s instincts have never steered him wrong and he nurses a small spark of hope that he hasn’t fucked this all up.

“Really.”

~~~

“If your boy break’s Clint’s heart, I will destroy him.”

“Relax,” Fury says, stroking through the fall of Natasha’s curls where they’re spread out across his bare chest, “Phil’s so head over heels I’m surprised little song birds aren’t following him around. I told you they were perfect for each other.”

“I will destroy you, too.”

“I know, kitten. I know,” he says, pressing a kiss to the top of her head.

~~~

“We need to talk.”

Phil has jumped out of airplanes into war zones, faced off against genocidal dictators, and infiltrated some of the deadliest prisons in the planet, and nothing has terrified him like those four words. 

He starts to type a response to the email a dozen times, writing and erasing and writing. Eventually he settles on, “Coffee? 2:30. The Washington Roast.” 

The independent coffee shop is nowhere near the office or his place. If Clint’s going to break up with him— No. Not break up, that’s not what they are. If Clint’s… firing him, or firing himself, then Phil doesn’t want to associate the memory with anywhere he might visit again. 

~~~

Clint swallows in dread even before he opens the email and feels an icy chill down his spine as he reads Phil’s response.

He’s chosen neutral ground and that means something. 

But what? 

Does he know that Clint’s become the worst kind of cliche: a hooker in love? Is he worried about Clint causing a scene? 

On the other hand, if Phil never wants to see him again why set up an in person meet, why not do this over the phone or by email?

Fuck. 

Fuck!

Natasha better be right. 

~~~

Phil adjusts his tie nervously. He’s early, Clint’s always on time and Phil wanted to be here before he arrived. 

He’s ordered something more sugar than coffee for himself and a plain drip for Clint and has set up at a table in the corner with the only door directly in his line of sight and the windows off to his right. 

He takes a sip of his “coffee” to give him something to do with his hands. 

Maybe this was a mistake. Maybe he should have had Clint come to his place, someplace he would be comfortable getting on his knees and begging. He once thought that sort of behavior, in this context at least, was beneath him but honestly he’s considering doing it right here in the coffee shop. 

He sees Clint before Clint sees him, their eyes meeting through the glass, each framed by the hearts still painted around the window.

In that moment Phil’s fears melt away. He can see it in Clint’s eyes, the lines of his face, and the set of his shoulders. He feels the same way. Nothing else matters. 

Phil stands and gestures towards Clint’s coffee as he approaches, “I got—“

“I love you.”

Phil smiles, “I love you, too.”

Clint grabs Phil and pulls him into a kiss; one hand at the nape of his neck, the other cupping Phil’s jaw as Clint leads the kiss and Phil follows. 

When they finally break apart, Clint says, “Let me do this right this time,” and pulls Phil’s collar out of his pocket, “Phil Coulson, will you do me the honor of wearing my collar?”

“Nothing would make me happier.”


	3. Epilogue

A bucket of ice cold water to the face is one of Clint’s least favorite ways to wake up. He shivers for a moment and shakes the hair out of his eyes. 

“Grigori Andreivitch. Fancy meeting you here,” Clint tests the ropes tying him to the chair. They’ll be a little harder to get out of now that they’re wet; which means this is going to take closer to fifteen minutes than five. He’ll need to keep the guy talking, which might be a little difficult seeing as whatever they drugged him with to get him here has left his brain all wobbly.

“Clint Barton. I have been looking for you for quite some time. I owe you for this,” he says, pointing at the eyepatch and the scar that runs underneath it from eyebrow to chin, “But first, you will tell me where the diamonds you stole from me are.”

“Yeah, I don’t see why I would do that?”

Andreivitch laughs darkly, “You think maybe I will hurt you for the information, but maybe not kill you until you give it up, yes? It is true, you are already dead. But I think you will talk anyway.”

“I gotta say, you’re not really inspiring me to sing.”

“It’s not you I’m planning on hurting. Right now your sub is probably waking up in the back room, terrified and alone, tied to a chair like you are. If you do not tell me what I want to know, then, then we start hurting. I give you my word, we will let your boy go unharmed if you speak now.”

It’s Clint’s turn to laugh. 

“What?” Andreivitch asks angrily, “You think this is funny? You think I do not have him, or I will not hurt him? You think I am lying?”

“No, Grigi, I don't think you’re lying. I think you're fucked.”


End file.
